Revenge is Sweet
by Dizzo
Summary: Sam thought he was being so witty when he cursed Crowley with a 'sweet revenge' for his part in the whole 'Demon Dean' debacle. So how come it's Dean that suffers?


REVENGE IS SWEET

Written for the Hallowe'en Fic Challenge on Spn_BigPretzel community, Livejournal.

Sam thought he was being so witty when he cursed Crowley with a 'sweet revenge' for his part in the whole 'Demon Dean' debacle. So how come it's Dean that suffers?

Dislaimer: Nope, I don't own them!

xxxxx

Sam couldn't deny that he was glad to have Dean back at the bunker and back to being his normal self. The whole Demon episode had been a chapter of his and Dean's life that he was very willing to forget.

He'd tried, on numerous occasions over the following weeks to reassure Dean that he'd forgiven him for his demonic transgressions, and that the whole episode was in the past, but even so, he couldn't help noticing that over the recent weeks, Dean had been making a concerted effort to be as well-behaved and saintly as possible; presumably feeling that he owed that much to himself, to Sam, to their friends, and most likely to the world in general.

And Sam knew all too well that being so unusually good and virtuous, particularly when you were Dean Winchester, was boring, out of character and, basically, sucked balls.

Aside from that, Sam still couldn't get the nefarious part that Crowley played in his brother's ordeal out of his thoughts, and dark plots of revenge were never very far away from the forefront of his mind.

One day he would have his chance. One day he, or Dean, or possibly both of them, would sink the demon blade squarely into Crowley's smug, unctuous face and watch in delight as his rancid Demonic soul exploded into a fireball of oblivion.

But until then, Sam was forced to hold his thoughts. Dean was, albeit reluctantly, making the effort to mend his ways, so he should too.

Although …

That sanctimonius, black-suited rat shouldn't be allowed to get away with it. Surely a little bit of naughtiness on Dean's behalf; something that didn't result in death or dismemberment was okay under the circumstances. Particularly as Sam had found a particularly interesting curse on one of his frequent explorations through the Letters' library, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity.

A plot hatched.

xxxxx

That evening, Sam persuaded Dean to treat himself to a night out. There was a bar only about a mile away, and Sam truly felt that Dean deserved to cut loose; to have a few drinks, win a few bucks at the pool table and … whatever; Sam didn't want to know the rest.

Despite Dean's protestations that he wanted Sam to come along to keep an eye on him, Sam felt that this would prove to be an important test of the brothers' trust. No, Sam didn't need to keep an eye on Dean because he wasn't a demon anymore; he was just Dean. Dean may still have issues in trusting himself, but Sam had none. He trusted Dean implicitly, and as far as Sam was concerned, it was important for him to demonstrate that fact.

Sam even offered to drive down to the bar and collect Dean when he was ready so that he could have a few drinks without worrying about driving back.

Dean agreed reluctantly at first. He was adamant he wanted Sam to come along, but Sam stuck to his guns. Primarily because there were things he wanted to do back at the bunker – Dean didn't have to know what kind of 'things' - and secondly because accompanying Dean on a night out in a noisy stinking backwoods bar was Sam's idea of pure unadulterated hell.

However, gradually, Dean began to warm to the idea, and by sunset, he couldn't wait to get on his way.

Finally, as the bunker's great heavy door swung shut behind Dean, Sam found himself alone in the bunker. He sat down at a table in the library, readying the book he needed, and began to read aloud …

xxxxx

It took less than an hour for the phone call to come through. It came from an unfamiliar number, and if Sam was in any way unsure who it was, the answer became very clear from the first word of their conversation.

"MOOSE!"

Sam smiled inwardly. "Crowley."

"Don't Crowley me," came the agitated voice; "I know what you've done."

"Me?" Sam replied innocently.

"Yes you," Crowley snapped; "you giant vindictive git."

"I don't know what you mean," Sam couldn't help the smirk that spread over his face.

"So you don't know that everything I touch turns to candy?" Crowley raged. Sam guessed it was a rhetorical question.

"Candy?" Now Sam was struggling not to laugh.

"Yes, bloody candy," Crowley snapped, his voice dripping with unbridled umbrage. "I was just settling in for a glass of Craig this evening; finest twenty year old–oak aged. I picked the glass up and the sodding thing shattered into a million Smarties."

"Really? Fancy that," remarked Sam coolly.

"No, I don't fancy it," snarled Crowley;" I don't fancy it at all. I had a bottle of 40 year old triple matured – one of the rarest scotches in the world - which is now a pile of Gummi Bears and my throne is, well, you've never seen so many bleeding Dum Dums in your whole life. All over the sodding floor."

"I don't know, I thought there were plenty of dum dums in Hell," Sam responded with an amused shrug.

"Well, aren't you the smug prat Moose," Crowley growled; "I can't even hold the bloody phone without gloves. I only discovered that because mine's now a pile of twenty Twizzlers. I've had to steal this phone off of some thick twat down here in Hell, and carve myself a pair of gloves out of his arsecheeks."

"So, what makes you think I did this?" Sam asked; "I mean you're pretty much universally despised; it could have been practically anyone in existence."

"Oh it's you alright," snorted Crowley; "it's too subtle, too imaginative for Dean. He'd just come charging in and shove a pikestaff up my arse. This abject bollocks has got your superiority complex written all over it."

"Well, after what you did to Dean," Sam replied with immense satisfaction; "dragging him around and letting him disgrace and humiliate himself when he wasn't capable of knowing better; I figured you deserved some humiliation too."

"It's called the Midas curse," Sam added; "it's supposed to make everything the victim touches turn to gold, but I wasn't gonna waste decent gold on a dick like you. I tweaked the wording a bit and I figured candy would be a good alternative because there's sure as Hell nothing else sweet about you."

"Just think yourself lucky you didn't end up walking around with horseshit firing out of your fingertips," Sam finished with a flourish; "we get enough of that out of your mouth, asshat."

"YOU SUPERCILLIOUS PRI…"

Sam cut Crowley's diatribe off mid-scream; "Oh, and by the way, don't get any ideas about turning me or Dean into a pile of Twinkies. It doesn't work on living creatures – I made sure of that."

Sam shut off the call with a satisfied click.

Winchesters one – Crowley nil.

Sam folded his arms behind his head, and stretched back in his chair, resting his feet on the table with the deep, satisfied sigh of a job well done.

Around half an hour passed, and Sam was busy catching up on research when a text came through. He thought it might be Dean looking for a pick up, but it was way too early.

The text came from the same number that Crowley had called from earlier and Sam's heart did a little flip-flop as he read it.  
 _'_ _Moose. You say it doesn't work on people. Does it work on cars? I can still apparate you know.'_

Sam's eyes widened as he re-read the text and realised the significance of the words.

He leapt up from the table, scattering paper everywhere and sending his chair sliding across the bunker's tiled floor.

Thundering up the metal staircase three at a time, he flung open the front door and glanced out into the night to where he had parked the Impala out front, ready to pick up Dean later.

His blood turned to ice as he saw the enormous mound of mixed candy spread across the ground where she had been parked.  
"CROWLEY, YOU UTTER BASTARD!" Sam screamed into the void.

His attention was diverted to a quiet beep in his pocket that heralded another text.

 _'_ _Good luck explaining yourself to Squirrel. Better get that giant brain of yours working on a reversing charm then. Bye bye Darling!'_

Sam grimaced as he shut the phone off and thrust it back into his pocket. His mind whirled. He was dead. Totally and utterly dead. Deader than a dead thing that died a billion years ago. Dean wouldn't need to be a demon to want to murder him in cold blood now.

Shit.

He drew in a deep, shaky breath. "Okay Sam," he inwardly scolded himself; "get a grip." His mind flew into overdrive. First things first; he needed to gather up all this candy before it blew away, or got rained on, or eaten by ants. He needed to find every last piece of it, and considering night had fallen now, that was not going to be an easy task.

It took two hours.

Two hours of backbreaking hard work for Sam, working by flashlight, to gather up all the candy, and dump it, armful by armful into the bunker's great hall until he could decide on his next course of action. On hands and knees grovelling around in the darkness, he scoured the ground, sifting through the autumn deadfall until his fingers were scraped raw and until he was satisfied that he'd picked up every single last piece of candy, including that unfortunate Baby Ruth bar that he'd inadvertently trodden on earlier. He hoped it wasn't too important.

He stared at the giant pile of candy that covered the huge table and a fair bit of the floor around him.

Shit.

Shitshitshitshit! BALLS!

Sam's musings were rudely interrupted by another text. This time it was Dean.

 _'_ _Its bEn goood nite RU commig smaMyy?'_

Okay, so it looked like Dean had had a good evening and was a few sheets to the wind. Perhaps that meant he'd be in a decent mood, and would be less inclined to feed Sam his own testicles.

Sam could only hope.

When Sam arrived at the bar, Dean, in his addled state couldn't help noticing that he had a dead leaf in his hair, bloody fingernails and wet patches on both his knees. And that was all before Dean noticed he was also on foot. All in all, not bad for a hammered guy Sam thought.

"Sam," Dean slurred; "where's *hic* 'pala?"

"Oh," Sam replied airily; "it's such a lovely night, I thought I'd come on foot and we could walk back to the bunker together."

Dean glanced around him, and up into the soupy grey clouds above him. He felt the damp breeze that ruffled his hair and shivered in the familiar Fall chill.

"Lovvvely nigh'?" Dean mused aloud; "s'orrible."

"Nah," Sam replied, tugging Dean by his jacket sleeve; "it's bracing; it's fall. I love fall, don't you?" He pulled in a deep breath; "just smell that peaty fall air, mmmmm ... invigorating."

Glancing around him Dean could see they were standing somewhere between the kitchen and the mens' room and that the fall air currently smelled of a combination of overcooked burgers, stale beer and a pissy floor.

"You're friggin' weird." He shook his head in Sam's direction and ambled unsteadily after him.

When they arrived back at the bunker, Sam guided Dean along the entrance gantry and down the stairs into the great hall.

"You wanna, get to bed and sleep it off?" Sam asked hopefully, trying to position himself between Dean's line of vision, and the mass of candy.

Dean hiccupped, and ran a hand through his hair; "Yeah, wanna get a glass of water first though."

"I'll get it," Sam replied eagerly; "you go to your room and I'll bring it."

Dean stared at Sam, before he turned to stumble toward his room, shaking his head and muttering something about 'ovaries'.

Sam headed for the kitchen. Could it be that simple? If he could work the reversing charm overnight, and get the Impala back outside and restored, he might have dodged one very big and very terrifying bullet.

He eventually delivered the water to Dean's room, to find Dean stripped out of his overshirt and jeans sprawled face down and unconscious across the bed; a resplendent horizontal vision in black T shirt, boxers and odd socks.

xxxxx

Working all through the night, Sam consulted the necessary texts to find the reversing charm and he was fairly sure, when he loaded all the candies into the biggest bag he could find to haul them down to the garage ready for their transformation back into the Impala, that Dean was still safely ensconsed in his room, basking in the joy of a well-earned hangover.

He might just actually get away with this. And when he did, he was going to go to his room and sleep for the rest of the day.

He spread the mass of candy out on the garage floor in front of him, and stepped back, well out of the way before he started to recite the reversing charm that he hoped would restore the impala and – unfortunately – uncurse that obnoxious turd, Crowley.

Mere seconds after he spoke the words, he watched in amazement as the candies all started to glow, hot and incandescent before the Impala just exploded back into being in front of him with a rumble and a clatter, shaking a mass of tools and dust off the shelves around him. She bounced momentarily on her suspension before settling to stillness.

Daring to approach her, Sam examined what he saw – she looked complete and unharmed.

Opening her door, he slipped into the driver's seat and started her engine. She purred into life without hesitation.

Letting go of the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, Sam switched off the engine and slumped back into the seat.

He'd actually done it; he'd gotten away with it. The Impala was all back in one piece, Crowley – unfortunately – was back to his normal, unpleasant self, and Dean would know nothing about any of it.

Closing his eyes, Sam let the relief wash over him.

It was when he opened his eyes, that's when he saw it. Or rather, didn't see it.

The Impala's aerial was missing.

Sam scratched his head and looked around him, but there was no sign of it. A little alarm started to go off in his head.

The alarm intensified when he head Dean calling for him.

Hopping out of the Impala, he scurried through the garage and up into the bunker where he found Dean standing in the great hall, wrapped in the dead guy robe and looking seriously unhappy.

"Dude" Sam greeted him; "bad night?"

Dean grunted. "Dunno," he groaned; "I feel like hammered crap."

Sam shrugged; "maybe you're getting too old for this all night bender routine."

Dean stifled a burp. "S'not just the hangover," he grunted; "my belly hurts like a freakin' bitch. Only started about an hour ago; I feel like someone's shoved a freakin' angel blade up my ass."

As if on cue, he groaned in pain, holding himself stiff and upright as if unable to bend in the middle.

"Well what did you eat last night?" Sam asked cautiously.

Dean shuffled over to the table and made an unsuccessful attempt at sitting down.

"Had burger and fries at the bar, then a slice of pie. Then, the weirdest thing, when I got back here and headed to my room, I noticed a snickers bar at the bottom of the main staircase. No idea how it got there, we must have dropped it when we got back from our last supply run. But, anyway, I had the munchies, so I took it to my room and …"

Sam's head dropped into his hands and he stared through his fingertips at his bemused brother's face.

"Okay Dean, *sigh* you see – it's like this …"

xxxxx

end


End file.
